


Filling in Some Blanks

by Mz_Mallow



Series: Cockatrice [3]
Category: OK K.O.! Let's Be Heroes
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Examination, Medical Trauma, No Smut, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Snacks & Snack Food, safe sex, they're both cis but neither has a 'typical' male mammalian configuration, unexpected genitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 00:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21328915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mz_Mallow/pseuds/Mz_Mallow
Summary: A pair of scenes previously-unwritten scenes that fit into the Cockatrice series; both fall chronologically after "Negotiation" and "First Kiss", and before "Adult Business". The first is a fleshing-out of the "surprising-then-awkward-then-illuminating make-out session" alluded to in "Adult Business". Together with the second chapter, they foreshadow the next couple of upcoming chapters of backstory fic "Glory Box", which are going to be... heavy.
Relationships: Lord Boxman/Professor Venomous
Series: Cockatrice [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1290218
Comments: 13
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to put this into tags for worry it would get misleadingly classified... part of the first chapter plays out like revelation of a character being transgender (in which the one disclosing is safe and respected), but both characters *are* cis in this story... they're living in a 'verse where different people have vastly different biologies and different experiences of what is common, normal, or expected. I know a lot of people have trans headcanons for one or both of these two characters, and I respect that. I just wanted to explore a different concept; I hope it's okay. ^^` I do take tag requests and constructive criticism.

In retrospect, they really should have known that their relationship—the business _and_ the personal sides—would always be marked by struggle… if not for the myriad of other reasons, just by what it took to choose movies to watch.

As much as he found chaos irresistible, Boxman kept returning to the comfort of the classic and familiar, consciously or not. Venomous had opened the door to their relationship on the night of Billiam’s disastrous yacht party, with a kiss atop Boxman’s flying desk. Boxman responded the next morning with an invitation for the most iconic sort of date he could think of (that didn’t involve cooking): he invited Venomous out for a movie. Or, in for a movie, as Boxmore had its own theater.

Going out might have made the whole ordeal a bit shorter. Lakewood’s local theater screened only a few movies at once; even the googolplex cinema a half-hour’s desk-flight away didn’t show more than a couple dozen. But Boxman’s movie library held hundreds of titles: purchased, stolen, or borrowed and never returned.

Boxman offered Venomous his choice. Venomous asked for recommendations. Gracious deference turned to an obsessive survey through the catalogue, turned to a dialogue on the merits of 40’s noirs versus grindhouse flicks, turned into a getting-all-up-in-your-face debate. Turned into hands grasping at shoulders and hair, turned into tongues inside each others’ mouths, turned into Venomous’ back pressed against the theater wall, his body sliding downward until he had to throw down a hand to catch his fall. Turned into Venomous pushing Boxman away with one hand as he examined the other hand with lip curled in distaste, and then brushing at his trousers: somehow even this theater had a floor that was soda-sticky and littered with popcorn crumbs.

Finally, Venomous asked Boxman to just put on whatever he’d been watching last. And at Boxman’s embarrassed, dissimulating response, Venomous made a guess as to the content, insisted upon it with a leer.

That was how they ended up watching a reel of building demolitions.

At first, Venomous was unimpressed. Or maybe he was simply disappointed that Boxman’s guilty secret hadn’t turned out to be something more titillating. It _was_ entertaining to watch urban destruction… but any villain might feel the same.

He glanced at Boxman in the next seat over. He was captivated, his eyes wide and fixed, his jaw just slightly slack, his hands clasped around an enormous tub of popcorn on his lap.

Venomous turned back to the screen. And suddenly, he thought he could see what Boxman saw. His mind reached past the aesthetics of explosions and clouds of dust and brick torn from brick, to fill in a narrative. Cityfolk running. Firefighters overwhelmed. A mayor prostrated by despair, begging. He looked past the mere fact of what he was seeing, and saw the power that could make it happen.

Grinning now, he glanced back at Boxman; he was still mesmerized by the screen.

Venomous reached over and gracefully plucked a kernel of butter-moistened popcorn between thumb and slender forefinger. As the hand entered his field of vision, Boxman blinked, returned to himself. His eyes tracked the kernel as Venomous slowly pulled it back, placed it on his extended tongue and let it sit for a moment, pulled it in and crushed it between his sharp teeth.

Boxman’s eyes returned to the screen, but now he was wearing a grin that exposed his snaggletooth—a sure tell that he was thinking about mischief, Venomous was coming to learn.

Boxman stretched his arms above his head, directly parallel, arching his back. He drew them back down, with a deep sigh and a heavy air of fake casualness, and draped one arm across Venomous’ shoulder.

_How corny. How_ _charming._

A warm flush crept across Venomous’ skin. On its face, the gesture was practically wholesome; and yet, it made him feel wicked. Here they were, two mature adults with years of dating behind them (certainly in Venomous’ case, at least), in a private theater that one of them owned. And yet, the simplicity of that gesture, the feeling of anticipation it invoked in him, sent Venomous back to his earliest days exploring romance. He felt electrifyingly sneaky; as if they had slipped the authority of a chaperone and were hiding, as if there was someone in the projector room who might look down and catch them at any moment.

He leaned over and whispered, wondering if Boxman could somehow feel his breath playing at the edge of his metal ear. “It’s too bad we can’t get closer. This armrest in the way…”

“Oh?” Boxman chirruped. He placed the tub of popcorn on the seat to his other side, sending a couple of kernels toppling to the floor, and stood up. “This?” He grasped at the armrest with both hands. “This folds right up!”

It didn’t. It wasn’t built to move at all. But Boxman gripped its top, biceps swelling alarmingly, lifting from his knees, the nonchalant grin on his face becoming more and more strained… Until, with a groan of screws being stripped of their thread, it came off in his hands.

He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. “See?” he said. And threw the broken armrest behind him, where it landed on some distant seat with a whump of metal against cushion. Boxman sat back down, primly lifted the popcorn tub back into his lap, and draped his arm around Venomous’ shoulders again with an air of triumph.

Venomous was sweating now too. He had seen Boxman access sudden, terrible strength when inspired by rage. He hadn’t dreamed that Boxman would be able to draw on that kind of strength out of sheer horniness.

Venomous let his hand take on a life of its own. Gradually, it slithered towards Boxman. Venomous’ fingers reached Boxman’s thigh, and ghosted up over it, fingertips trailing over the fabric of his trousers, coming to rest just before they would have disappeared under the tub of popcorn.

A fresh sheen of sweat had appeared on Boxman’s brow.

“You want this?” Venomous breathed.

Onscreen, unaccompanied by sound, a scaffold lost its stability, buckled, collapsed.

Eyes still fixed ahead, Boxman nodded.

Venomous let his fingers enter the unseen space beneath the popcorn tub, following the curve of Boxman’s thigh. They slid upwards; insinuated themselves under the waistband of Boxman’s trousers; crept downwards once again. He felt Boxman’s breathing speed up, getting slightly faster for every centimeter closed between Venomous’ fingers and his groin. Venomous’ thoughts were full of the kind of power he might be able to exert right here, right now. He wondered: if he let his hand play there long enough, in that hidden space… would he be able to make Boxman lose control? To make him climax, inappropriately, helplessly, right here in the theater?

Venomous’ hand hadn’t yet found anything firm. He was mildly surprised—his own pants had been tight since he had watched Boxman heave the armrest—but filed away the observation: Boxman’s response was slower than his own… that was okay. It only meant more opportunity for foreplay, more time to tempt and tease. He was willing to work for what he wanted.

His fingers reached a lowermost place, bumped up against the seat. He pulled them in against Boxman’s groin.

There was no penis there. No testicles. Just a flat expanse of flesh with a soft indentation.

Venomous’ eyes opened wide. His inner vision was filled with horrific industrial accidents—machinery crushing, shearing, destroying the most sensitive of flesh—doubled in intensity for his own double penises.

Reflexively, his hand fled up and away. Popcorn went flying. The tub somersaulted over the row of seats in front of them, landed with a soft hollow thud, followed by a patter of falling kernels.

Boxman yelped, a shrill gulp of surprise, and pulled back, staring at Venomous.

“H-h-how did you lose…” Venomous managed to choke out.

Boxman’s voice unconsciously mimicked the tremor in Venomous’. “L…lose? Lose what?” He blinked in surprise, looking unsure, a little worried… but he didn’t look at all like a man who had just been reminded of a traumatic amputation accident.

A realization dawned on Venomous. He had seen Boxman shirtless, during the dinner that ended with the pie cannon. He had noticed lines of scar tissue on his chest, but had been too polite—and too distracted—to think about what might have caused it.

_You’re a goddamn fool_, Venomous thought to himself, willing his breathing to return to normal. _He’s trans. And he thought you knew that. _He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath through his nose. First order of business: he had to let Boxman know he was safe.

“I’m… I’m honored that you would come out to me…” he began.

Boxman stared at him, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

Venomous stopped, mentally kicking himself. _‘Come out’ would be before a person transitions. We’re talking medical history now; you should have said ‘disclose’._

Boxman’s voice was quavery with intense secondhand embarrassment. “Uhh… Are you talking to my cock?”

Now Venomous stared. “What?”

Boxman glanced away, snaggletooth bared in a bashful grin. “I’m uh… not as young as I used to be. It’s gonna take a minute to… you know.” He giggled. “You don’t have to use fancy words. Just… keep doing what you were doing.” His blush deepened.

Venomous didn’t answer, trying to process what he was hearing.

Boxman glanced up at him, eyebrows knitting. In a subconscious nervous gesture, he touched the talons of his avian hand to his lower lip.

_The talons of his… avian hand…_

A lesson in comparative anthro-variant anatomy from Evil University flooded into Venomous’ mind. He barked a laugh. “You’re avian-human!”

“Um… yes,” Boxman responded, in a tone that suggested he was only marginally too mature to say, _No doy._

“Your… parts. It’s all inside.”

Boxman fluffed his feathers, huffy, proud. “Well, yeah! Any valuable tool should be safely stashed away when you’re not using it—that’s just practical. Frankly, I don’t know how mammal men deal with the… the _dangle_.”

Venomous barked with laughter, and leaned forward, jackknifing in his seat. He looked up at Boxman through squinting eyes and saw him cringe.

“Sorry, sorry… it’s not anything you’ve done,” Venomous said, holding up a hand in a placating gesture. “It’s just… For a moment there, I thought you’d lost it all in some awful accident.”

Boxman blanched, lower eyelids squinting queasily at the thought, then mirrored Venomous’ grin of relief.

“I don’t want to be rude, but… can I ask you about something?”

“Oh, ask away!” Boxman exclaimed, waving a hand casually. “You know me—I’m not embarrassed about anything!”

Venomous touched a hand to his chest. “You have… scars…”

“Glorb implantation,” Boxman answered without hesitation.

“Oh, of _course_.” There had been a diagram on a screen at Boxmore’s glorb refinement plant, that night before Billiam’s party, showing the glorb in the center of Boxman’s torso. How else would his cyborg parts be powered? But then Venomous’ eyebrow took on a crook of uncertainty. “On both sides, though?”

Boxman rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “I uh… the first one didn’t… heal right. Had to get it out and done again.”

“Ah! That explains it. I should have figured that from the start.”

“Why? What did you think?”

“Well… the scars and all… I thought it meant you were trans.”

Boxman silently mouthed the last word, eyebrows lowering in thought. Venomous realized that the abbreviation could mean many things in the day-to-day life of a scientist or a businessman… transportation, trans-cis isomerism, transmutation, transcontinental…

“Transgender,” Venomous clarified.

“Oh! Right, right,” Boxman exclaimed. “That used to happen a lot, back in the…” He paused, thoughts turning inward, his expression darkening for a split second, before his eyes returned to focus. “… back in the _day_.” His words tumbled out one after the other. “We called that getting mis-labled. Happened with one of my sisters. Not me, though. Pretty clear to everyone from the start that I’d be a cock—” His last word broke off. His hand raised to his mouth, as if it could push the word back in.

Venomous didn’t notice.

“That’s interesting terminology! Do all avian-humans use it? ‘Cock’ for men… so would the term for women be ‘hen’, then?”

Boxman was silent, his eyes focused on something removed from the hear-and-now.

“… Box?”

Boxman spoke in small words, voice like the pictures in an unpurchased coloring book, empty outlines. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

They sat there for a moment.

“Boxman?” Venomous ventured, softly. “Are you okay?”

Boxman blinked, slowly, as if doing so took effort. He smiled, in a way that only reached halfway up his face, and turned away to the screen. “I… yeah. Could we… watch some more?”

Images of destruction were still spooling across the screen.

Venomous wanted to ask what had happened, but wanted to respect Boxman’s request. And didn’t want to stir up whatever it was that he had unearthed. So he lifted his face to the screen as well.

After a few minutes, Venomous nudged his elbow gently against Boxman’s arm, and when Boxman didn’t flinch away, laid his arm across his shoulders. Venomous’ anxiety ebbed somewhat when Boxman leaned into him, his posture once again grounded, the contact close and warm. But this time, there was no erotic charge of the kind Venomous had felt when Boxman’s arm had been around him.

It didn’t take long before Boxman seemed to be back to his ordinary self. It would be only a few days before they planned their next movie date. It would be only a few weeks before they took their romantic relationship to the next level. But it be a long time before they talked about the memory they had touched upon that time in the theater.


	2. the doctor

“Have you been tested recently?” Venomous asked, his voice husky.

Boxman blinked at him. In the background, the Boxmore factory assembly line chugged on.

Boxman wasn’t one to mince words; it was one of his characteristics Venomous appreciated most. After years in the upper echelons of villainy—and especially after hearing an intolerable number of monologues—Venomous had become used to elaborate language, to rituals and tropes. Around Boxman he could drop that kind of liturgy, could relax out of the need to seem impressive at all times, could just say what he meant. It was a relief.

He… really should have given more lead-up to this question, though. In his defense, he’d meant to ask it for a long while. And he wasn’t exactly thinking clearly at the moment.

That night when they’d left Billiam’s capsized and smoldering yacht, he’d felt like the wave of adrenaline they were riding would carry them straight through from their first kiss to undressed and grinding in a matter of minutes, consequences be damned. But Boxman had been drunk, not in control of himself; and so Venomous had been judicious for the both of them… and instead of having a quick fuck, they’d had a long talk.

Then there had been that time in the theater, when Venomous, with words and with caresses, had asked Boxman whether the time was right, and Boxman had coaxed him on. But misunderstanding had disrupted them, and then something—some word, memory, or fear—had put a stop to it altogether.

It had sunk in then: Venomous couldn’t just seduce Boxman the way he might seduce another villain; Boxman didn’t play games like other villains did, and he didn’t play the mating game either. And Venomous couldn’t fall into bed with Boxman the way the two of them would fall into an impact crater, careless and with certainty that any injuries would be quickly healed and well worth the fun. Boxman was nearly physically invulnerable, and he projected an emotional invulnerability to match; but underneath all that bluster, it appeared that he had strange and unmapped sensitive spots. Venomous already regretted the way he’d strung him along since their first meeting, encouraging him closer and then pushing him away again and again.

So Venomous had made up his mind: he’d have to be the responsible one in this relationship.

_Although Boxman wasn’t making it easy_, he thought with a delicious shiver and a chagrined bite of his lip, as he felt Boxman’s avian hand discreetly cup one of his buttocks in passing.

“So…?” Asked Boxman. He’d been explaining some detail of the manufacturing process, progress made on the shipment of 1,000 robots destined for Venomous Labs LLC.

Venomous gave him a crooked grin, eyes half-lidded. He hadn’t absorbed a fraction of what had been said.

Boxman knew what that expression meant. He liked it. One of his fangs slipped out over his lip.

Venomous wanted to bite that lip.

_Wait_, he told himself. _Be deliberate_._ Make preparations._

“Have you been tested recently?” Venomous asked, his voice husky.

In his mind, the question had a full context. A topic that naturally had to be addressed in the hedonistic circles of high villainy. And personally, days and nights of private thoughts of what he wanted to do with Boxman.

In the present world, Boxman’s mischievous grin slipped into a blank expression. “Q.C. tests are ongoing,” he said, voice cracking high. He gestured out over the factory. “See the Darrells?”

“No, I meant…” Venomous chuckled. He closed the distance between them, leaned down, took Boxman’s face in his hands.

“Shh! The Darrells…” Boxman rasped, with a side-glance. So he still hadn’t told his children about their relationship.

Venomous turned his head and announced in a side-whisper so loud it was nearly a side-shout, “I have to ask a very technical and very boring question.” Then he put his face beside Boxman’s face again, cupped one mechanical ear with a long-fingered hand.

“I’m talking about safe sex,” he whispered into the bronze disc. He felt Boxman’s arm tense. Awkward. Well, it was awkward to bring it up, but it had to be said and looked like he’d have to be the one to do it. Didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little fun at the same time, though. He would have liked to bite an earlobe, but faced with nerveless metal, he flicked out his tongue to touch the edge of Boxman’s jaw just under his ear. He slid his fingers to the nape of Boxman’s neck, and was gratified to feel Boxman shiver and lean into the touch.

“I’ve got a clean bill of health from my doctor,” he continued.

At the word “doctor”, Boxman gave a small jolt, pulled away from Venomous’ hand. “C-certainly that’s not necessary!”

“It’s nothing to be nervous about,” Venomous said, his voice keeping its sultry lowness but gaining an undertone of firmness. “Just like any other visit to the doctor.”

Boxman’s face blanched. “No.” The sharp finality of the word startled Venomous. It startled Boxman too.

“I mean…” Boxman forced a laugh, the sound as hollow as the clang of a tin cup. “I haven’t_uh_… been with anybody…” Venomous’ eyes widened. “…not in a really, really long time…” Boxman trailed off, twisting the fingers of his hands together.

Venomous laid a hand on Boxman’s avian forearm, encouraging his hands to still. Following a chill of intuition, he leaned in and made eye contact. “When’s the last time you saw any doctor?” His voice was gentle, but demanded a straight answer.

Boxman’s feathers prickled under his fingers. The anxious look Boxman turned on him only reinforced what he’d already guessed.

After many cycles of conversation—denial, encouragement, annoyance, chiding, incentives—Venomous finally managed to eke a commitment out of Boxman. But it was touch-and-go, even then. Boxman procrastinated endlessly, until Venomous finally did the research—that is, cornered Pird in a dark alley and managed to hear names somewhere among the hysterical screams for help—and cross-checked online to find a doctor with a specialty in human-avian anatomy who also had training in cyborg care. Then Boxman had seemed receptive to the idea, even grateful… until Venomous said “she”, and he’d reverted to full escape mode. Frustrating, and strange; Boxman may’ve been old-fashioned in many ways, but he never balked at Cosma and Vormulax’s authority. It wasn’t until Boxman saw the photo of the doctor on her website, saw her feathers and beak, that he let himself be talked into an appointment again.

It was an unseasonably chilly day, so they fished their coats out of their closets. Boxman hunched within the bulk of his like it was felty camel-colored armor, going positively bell-shaped. Venomous’s coat was long and dark and he relished the dramatic way it moved as he walked, as he always did.

Despite uncharacteristic reticence, Boxman seemed to be holding up well, trotting at Venomous’ side to match his long strides. But as they got closer to the office, his cheerful smile looked more and more like a grimace.

They sat in the waiting room side-by-side, a clipboard with check-in paperwork balanced on Boxman’s narrow knee. His hand tapped the pen against the board, again and again, leaving a trail of tiny dots but no information. He was looking up at the ceiling. “I’ve got the best idea for a new attack, _hu hu_. Those Plaza twerps won’t know what hit them!” Venomous redirected his attention.

The check-in paperwork got filled, somehow. When they were called into the examination room, Boxman froze; but at a touch from Venomous, he jumped to his feet and practically ran ahead of the nurse.

He sat on the examination table, significantly taller that way than he would have been standing. When the doctor entered, he drew himself up as tall as he could, even his crest of hair rising, and the feathers of his arm fluffed.

“Oh. So _you’re_ the one who’s supposed to do the _examination_,” he said, a mocking sneer coloring his voice.

Venomous grimaced apologetically; but the doctor took the sour salutation in stride.

The first part of her examination consisted of standard questions: about sleep (recommendation to go to bed at a regular hour, instead of falling asleep at your desk); exercise (no issues there); diet (your avian side is primarily frugivorous, so go easy on the hot dogs.) As the talk went on, Boxman’s prickliness eased—he enjoyed talking about himself. He’d been braced to hear a litany of his shortcomings, like a business meeting; but in this office, he was hearing encouragement and constructive suggestions, not just shameful numbers, shouts and epithets. As Boxman relaxed—visibly and audibly, his tone smoothing along with his feathers—Venomous relaxed along with him.

Boxman took no issue with the initial physical tests—the reflex hammer, the doctor shining light into his eyes, peering into his throat. He tried to argue over the height recorded for him, but without any real aggression. It looked like the examination was going to go well, after all.

Until she listened to Boxman’s heartbeat and breathing.

He’d gulped when she’d directed him to sit sideways on the table; his expression had gone slack when she had moved behind him. He had shuddered at the touch of the stethoscope. But when it moved from the center of his back to lay against his ribs on either side, he yelped, a small-animal type of sound.

The doctor paused and looked to Venomous then, her eyebrow speaking concern and a tilt of her head directing him in. He laid a hand on Boxman’s arm, and Boxman grasped his wrist, tight enough for his fingernails as well as his talons to leave indentations in Venomous’ skin.

“You don’t have to worry; I’m going to be very careful,” the doctor said, moving so that Boxman could have seen her face if he looked to the side; which he didn’t. “But I have to make sure there’s no lumps that might need to get checked out,” she said, her voice slow and even. “I’ve examined hundreds of avian male patients. I promise: you won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

Funny; Venomous might have expected the phrasing, “You won’t _be asked to_ do anything you don’t want to do.” He didn’t have much spare attention to dedicate to parsing out the statement, though; all his attention was focused on Boxman. His eyes were unfocused, looking past the cheerfully-colored wallpaper in the room to something past it in space and time.

Whatever the doctor had to do, it was over just as quickly as she had promised. “Everything feels A-OK here,” she said with an encouraging lilt, raising her hands into Boxman’s eyesight. But he stayed still, breathing shallowly.

Venomous hoped his arm could tether Boxman to the present reality, keep him from drifting away again to whatever far place he had traveled. And, after a minute, his eyes moved to Venomous’ face. Venomous breathed a discreet sigh of relief.

At the receptionist’s desk, Venomous paid the examination fee.

As they walked back out to the parking lot, Venomous noticed Boxman’s eyes were downcast, watching his feet as they ate up the pavement.

“Can I ask what’s on your mind?” Venomous ventured.

“Stickers.

Venomous waited for more explanation. When it didn’t come, he made a questioning sound in his throat.

“At the desk. At the end there,” Boxman muttered. “_Good job_. _Well done._ For brats, right?” He made a high, cynical chortle. “I never got a sticker. When I was a brat. That’s all.”

Venomous stopped in his tracks. Boxman ran on ahead of him for several stops before catching on, turning back. Venomous had already closed half the distance back to the office.

“Sorry. Just one question,” he half-gasped, entering the office. He plucked one sticker from a counter-top basket: _You’re The Best_, it read in candy-apple red and citrus-orange. “I have a minion at home…” he started.

He didn’t need to finish. “Go ahead,” the receptionist nodded. “Take a couple, if you want. Glad to see someone appreciate them. Minions these days. They’re _too cool_.”

Striding back, half-running, he found Boxman in exactly the same place he’d left him, looking quizzical. He handed him the sticker.

“Ridiculous,” Boxman chided him, nestling his head down into the high, thick collar of his coat. But as they returned to the car, he clutched the sticker between his fingers, and Venomous caught a glimpse of him smiling.


End file.
